


fragments/shadows

by pepperfield



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: AI experimentation, Canon Compliant, Gen, Memory Alteration, Memory Loss, Mother-Daughter Relationship, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-29
Updated: 2014-09-29
Packaged: 2018-02-19 05:24:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2376335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pepperfield/pseuds/pepperfield
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even a shadow has loved ones.</p><p>Or: the Beta AI is taught how to forget.</p>
            </blockquote>





	fragments/shadows

You've never had children. How could you? You've been fighting a war. It feels like you've always been at war. When would you have time to take care of a kid?

Who, in your short life, would you have met that could convince you to start a family with him? No one. Leonard, maybe, possibly, if you were in a really charitable mood when he asked. But he hasn't. He's skirted around the subject of marriage before, but not kids. You'd be terrible parents anyway. Absent, irresponsible, angry, controlling, careless, suffocating. Simply terrible. And now he's stationed somewhere, and you're a freelancer, and it'll be awhile yet until you see him again. Which you will, undoubtedly. He always manages to find you, some way or another.

But, you've never had any children. Not that you know of.

And therein lies the problem. Because, what do you know about yourself, really? What can you say about yourself that is absolutely, unfailingly true?  The human mind is just so fragile, so malleable - how can you be sure that any of the memories in your head are real? Because if they are, why do you remember a daughter you never had?

Why, despite everything you know about yourself, can you remember a little girl with red hair, and her father's eyes, calling for her mother? Calling for you?

You remember picking her back up from the ground after she'd scraped her knees, her eyes watering but tears held back, a deep breath sucked in and kept, bubbled up in her cheeks as she tried not to cry. You remember the way she smiled at you in pride when she learned to write her name, all letters in order and facing the right direction, a trail of crushed paper covered in her shaky handwriting and her father's example alphabet littering the table. You remember the night you left for your first tour since she had been born, and the promise you make to see her again soon, sealed with a kiss to her fingertips. You don't say goodbye.

You remember loving her, so much more than anything you ever have before. More than money, and your job, and Leonard.

But the more you think about her, the more uneasy you feel. She doesn't exist. How can she? You've never had kids.

"Who's the girl?" you ask The Director, but he shakes his head in disappointment.

"You needn't concern yourself with that, Agent." He turns to leave, but not before giving an order to the man standing by his side.

_Terminate session. Restart._

\--

"Tell me about Leonard," The Director commands.

"My ex?" you ask, confused. "Why do you want to hear about Church?"

"Answer the question, Agent Texas."

Okay, fine, Church. What's there to say? You dated. You broke up. You got back together and broke up again, etc, etc, ad infinitum. He's a soldier, like you, but he's a shitty one, unlike you.

No. Wait. He's a scientist. He works in the R&D division with a bunch of incompetent morons in- what was that company again?

Why can't you remember? You shuffle rapidly through your memories of him: jogging slowly on the treadmill and flipping you off as you heckle him, picking apart the inconsistencies of the latest B-list sci-fi drivel on TV while he massages your shoulders, yelling out the windows at other drivers merging into his lane, laughing as your daughter tries to write her own equations on his whiteboard.

...your daughter?

"We had a daughter." you say, but it's not a statement. It's a question. "Leonard almost passed out when I told him about the baby. Good thing I was the one driving." He had forced you to pull over, yelling something about alcohol poisoning and baby-proofing the lab and god knows what else, and you'd said it was only one glass of wine, of course you drank it, he was the one paying that night. It was your last hurrah, what was he expecting? You weren't going to just let your life grind to a halt because you were carrying some extra baggage now. And that just set him off even more, and next thing you knew he was calling the base and shrieking about maternity leave. That was why you never told him anything. Leonard overreacted to even the smallest of occurrences.

You expect The Director to inquire further about this almost non sequitur, but he doesn't. He only puts his holo-clipboard back down on the table. "Indeed. Excuse me for a moment," he says, and exits.

_Terminate session. Restart._

\--

The video shows an agent in cyan armor deftly avoiding an enemy combatant with a defensive roll, before incapacitating him with a sturdy strike to the neck. The agent takes off running down the hallway, but you're still thinking about that move. It reminds you of an old memory.

You're the one who taught your daughter how to somersault. Taught her how to bend her knees and tuck in her head the right way, watched her roll through the lawn and smiled teasingly when she whined about being called "sweetie" again. You'd taught her how to throw a punch too, albeit the punch of a small child with barely developed muscles, but her form was good. She was certainly your daughter, Leonard liked to say, especially when she didn't get her way and started breaking things in tantrums. You'd demonstrate another punch for her, on her father.

"She's got nice moves. They look a lot like mine," you note, watching the way the agent slams through the door. You think she might have red hair underneath that helmet.

_Terminate session. Restart._

\--

You can remember that the forecast that day had said there might be rain. He hadn't wanted you to leave without your umbrella, which was ridiculous, since you were just going to get into the car and drive to the base. You'd stepped outside and the sky had been overcast, sure, but not a single droplet of rain in sight.

"What else can you tell me about Leonard?" The Director prods. "The last thing you remember."

The last time you saw Leonard, he'd been holding the stupid camera, trying to film you again. You'd just put your daughter to bed, promising to try and return quickly, and you had left her room to find Leonard fiddling around with the thing. He always was too sentimental, so you indulged him a little, but not so long as to make you late. So the last time you saw him, his face was hidden behind the camera. Stupid Leonard.

When you see him again, you're definitely going to chew him out.

"I saw him right before I left for my latest tour. He wouldn't put the camera down, but it wasn't even a long mission. I should call him." You should. Let your family know you're okay, that you're just being interviewed for a new program and you might be away for another while. See your daughter again before you ship out. They're probably worried about you, about what happened on the mission, about you dying.

"Allison?" The Director says, tentatively, and you haven't known him very long, but that tone makes you wonder if maybe you'd met before. He draws closer, out of the shadows, and you realize that despite the lines of age and the graying hair, he looks an awful lot like-

"Leonard?" you ask. "What happened to you?" But perhaps, more importantly, "What's going on?"

" _Allison_ _!_ " Leonard says, urgently, dropping his files and rushing to you, but it isn't right, _you_ aren't right, you shouldn't be here.

You see yourself, from the camera lens, laughing at Leonard and pulling away. Leaving. And that's how it happened, isn't it? But what came next? There's nothing in your memory. It's blank, and no matter how much you try to recall the mission, you can't. All you find is that same image of you, smiling and turning away. Again and again and again-

"Director, we agreed that this wouldn't work!" The Counselor says from somewhere very far away. "The Beta AI cannot be allowed to go this far; Alpha's memories are not compatible with her-"

"I'm so close, she just needs another push! Allison!"

No, no, no, this isn't Leonard, and you aren't Allison. You don't know who you are, but you're not this woman, or the memory or shell or shadow of this woman, you're someone else, you're-

_Terminate session. Full restart._

\--

"Agent Texas, do you know anyone named Leonard?"

No, you don't think you do. "No, sir."

The Director hums, jotting a note on his clipboard, his expression a little darker than it was before. "I see. And have you seen these people before?" he asks, pointing to a series of people on screen. But your attention is caught on his eyes, partially obscured by his glasses. They're a very odd shade of green.

There's something familiar about them. It's irritating that you can't quite place the reason why. He notices you're distracted and turns the screen off.

 _Restart_.

\--

"Do you know this woman, Agent Texas?"

The image of a woman appears on the screen. She has long red hair and dangerous eyes, electric green and piercing.

Those are Leonard's eyes.

Your shock must show on your face, because The Director frowns. "What is it, Agent?"

"I don't know who the fuck she is, but I sure as hell know which bastard was her sperm donor," you snarl.

 _Restart_.

\--

"Do you have any children, Agent Texas?"

"Hell no," you respond, but there's hesitation in your voice.

 _Restart_.

\--

"Do you have any family? Husband? Children?" The Director questions, and you're pretty sure it should all be in your file, but you answer dutifully anyway.

"No kids, sir. No husband either." There was a time when you thought you might marry, but that's all in the past now. 

The Director stares at his clipboard for a long second, then closes your electronic file. "Thank you, soldier. I'll review your file tonight and contact you again."

"Of course. Thank you, sir."

_Session suspended._

\--

"Can you tell me more about Leonard Church?"

Leonard? You haven't thought about him much lately. You wonder briefly if he's alright; he never was much of a fighter. Maybe you'll look him up when you're on leave, for old times' sake.

"There isn't much to say. He's with the UNSC. Stationed out on Sidewinder, now, I think. We broke up a few months before I joined Project Freelancer; I haven't spoken to him recently."

The Director nods, satisfied. You suppose he's glad that you don't have any attachments that might hold you back. No weaknesses, no soft spots.

"Good, good. We'll continue this tomorrow, Agent. Goodnight."

\--

"Do you recognize this woman, Agent Texas?"

There's a picture of a soldier on the screen in cyan armor, helmet tucked under her arm. Her hair, burning red, is escaping from her ponytail, flyaway wisps framing her face. You've seen her before.

"Yeah, Carolina, right? I remember her fight in the hangar. She's pretty good. Fast. She's the best of the other freelancers, for sure." Not better than you, but not many people are.

"Yes, she is," The Director responds, with an approving look. He seems proud, and you guess you would be too, to have such a good soldier in your program. As far as you remember, Carolina doesn't have an AI yet; with one, she might even stand a chance against you.

Before he leaves today, The Director asks you something new. "Would you like to personally test the other freelancers yourself, Agent? How about a sparring match tomorrow?"

It feels like you've been cooped up in here forever; a fight is exactly what you need. "Sounds good, sir."

\--

When you see Carolina in the field for the first time, something akin to pride settles in your gut as you watch her work. The mission goes a bit wild, and in the end, you're the one who completes the objective, but still, she's good. A strong leader.

You mean it when you tell her, "Better luck next time." Whatever chip it is she's carrying on her shoulders, you hope it lifts someday.

And if you happen to catch a glimpse of a young red-haired girl with bright eyes and a sweet smile when you look at Carolina, well, no one has to know. You wait for her image to dissolve and you soldier on. There's work to be done.


End file.
